Picture Perfect
by temerity
Summary: Dumbledore's worried about how to express his feelings for a certain deputy headmistress...but when the portraits in his office offer their advice, things take an unexpected turn! [MMAD and fluffy]
1. The Proposition

Disclaimer: None of it!

Albus Dumbledore paced across his office in what he knew to be his two hundredth trip that morning, blinking as he turned to the window and saw the sun slipping in through the curtains to shine and shimmer on his silvery beard.

Ah—he still had some lemon drops left, didn't he? The headmaster started to reach for one from the bowl on his desk, but instead turned and resumed his pacing. Even sweets couldn't distract Albus from the question that had been troubling him for the better part of…well, how long had it been now? Five years? Ten years? It was funny, Albus mused, how the years ran together when he'd lived through one hundred and fifty of them—and yet he could still remember the first time he'd set eyes on Minerva McGonagall, how her long hair had swung over her eyes as she'd scribbled furiously to finish an essay in his Transfiguration class. It was too bad, Albus mused, that she always wore it up in that severe bun these days…

His smile, all too brief in the first place, quickly faded. His age was the problem, wasn't it?—not to mention that they shared a close but comfortable headmaster-deputy sort of professional bond. Such a romantic relationship in those terms, Albus reminded himself, was strictly out-of-bounds. He wished fervently that he'd only lived eighty, ninety years…perhaps he wouldn't be so anxious now if he'd been born a few decades later. If only he'd been her classmate instead of her teacher…

"Dear, stop worrying," said Dilys Derwent from her portrait, looking down at him with some concern. Dumbledore allowed his lips to curve up in a small smile as he steepled his fingers together—attempts, she knew, to appear to be the confident, all-powerful headmaster Hogwarts expected. "I am fine, Dilys," he said, but continued to pace all the same.

Dumbledore soon became aware that the eyes of most of the subjects of the portraits were trained on his nervous, uneasy walk (and when had any of them ever seen the headmaster as other than cool and collected?). The old man finally threw his hands up in the air.

"I fear we have a problem," he said to no one in particular. Phineas raised an eyebrow in his portrait to the left of the headmaster. "Ah," he said. "I think you'll find that _you're_ the only one with the problem, Dumbledore."

"He's nervous," Dilys explained to Phineas. "Poor dear. Will you tell her today, Albus?"

The headmaster folded his hands and sighed. "I've been meaning to tell her for far too long, Dilys. The only problem is that the right moment never comes up…and, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I'd know what to say if that moment _did_ arrive."

"I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be _brave_," sneered Phineas, earning nasty glares from both Dilys and Armando. It was Everard, however, who finally piped up with a solution.

"I believe you and Minerva share a common friendship with Mrs. Pomfrey, Albus. Surely _she'd_ be willing to help you think of the right things to say—especially as she also knows what Minerva would be likely to accept."

Dumbledore said nothing for a while, letting the minutes trickle by in silence. Did Poppy know?

"I believe that Mrs. Pomfrey has a good indication of the feelings of all of the staff members on every imaginable subject," said Everard, in response to Dumbledore's silent question. "I think she's figured it out by now, Albus—especially considering that she's been a close friend of Minerva's for ages. Call her up," he urged. "Do you want to go on _another_ ten years like this?"

It was this, more than anything else, that finally settled Dumbledore's mind. With a whispered incantation he sent a message to Poppy in the infirmary, politely requesting her in his office if she could spare the time.

A few minutes and several laps around the office later, Poppy appeared in the doorway. "I hear you've been having some trouble," she said at once, causing Albus to turn and glare at the portraits—Dilys, in particular, wore a slightly guilty expression.

This was a delicate situation; Albus decided to leave out names, though he strongly suspected that the healer knew everything anyway. When he pressed her to keep his confidences a secret, however, she readily agreed.

"What do you plan on telling her?" Poppy asked. Dumbledore cringed.

"My feelings are of, er—a somewhat _personal_ nature," he said. Poppy airily brushed him away.

"Poppycock, Albus Dumbledore. You need to practice what you're going to say, down to the very last _I Love You_. Now, come on. Out with it."

-----

Minerva McGonagall hurried down the hallway, looking flustered. Although the school building was fairly empty due to both the Hogsmeade trip and the last rays of October sunshine spreading over the Hogwarts grounds, she'd already caught Peeves drawing obscene diagrams on the chalkboards in some of the third floor classrooms. It had taken her over an hour to erase all of the swear words and—ahem—_other _sketches, drawn by a most creative poltergeist. Minerva's ears burned as she remembered one in the History of Magic Classroom—a half-naked, stick figure deputy headmistress deep in a passionate liplock with an unmistakable headmaster stick figure.

After her run-in with Peeves' artistic talents, Professor McGonagall had turned a corner to find that redheaded Ronald Weasly and Lavender Brown glued together in a way that reminded her of another of the more immodest drawings. Another few minutes and she had glimpsed a very miserable-looking Hermione stalking down the corridor to the library. When would these teenagers learn? It was better to admit these kinds of feelings—after all, keeping them bottled up was most definitely unhealthy…

Oh.

Right.

Minerva was reminded that had been doing the same thing for the past…well, how long had it been now? Five years? Ten years? It was funny, she thought, how she could still remember her first glimpse of the true Dumbledore even after all this time—sitting at his desk and watching her scribble an essay, a stern façade hiding the friendly sparkle in his sapphire eyes…

Minerva shocked herself out of the reverie, feeling guilty. Dumbledore was her boss, after all—and no matter how many private picnics they held together on spring afternoons, it was a close platonic relationship too risqué to shatter with any teenage illusion. But, Minerva reminded herself, surely a schoolgirl crush didn't last six decades?

It was of no use, she decided, and picked up her pace. Albus would always think of her as his student—as a child, even a daughter. She realized that she was headed toward the headmaster's office and remembered that she had been meaning to talk with Albus about the intentions of Argus Filch to press a mandate through the school board permitting student whipping…

Minerva's heart thudded to a stop as she stopped outside the doorframe and quickly tucked herself behind it, out of sight and unable to believe what she was hearing.

_Please be kind and let me know how I'm doing on my very first Harry Potter fic!_


	2. The Proposal

Disclaimer: Not even a little bit!

Dumbledore was on one knee, keeping his balance with difficulty and feeling more than a little awkward. "That's perfect," Poppy said, so softly that Albus had to lean in her catch her words. "Keep going…make it good. Remember what we've gone over."

Dumbledore allowed himself an uncharacteristic roll of the eyes before picking up the line edited and approved by Poppy as the one to catch Minerva's heart.

"My dear," he started, "my dear, I have a confession to make."

Minerva's breathing stalled; her heart seemed to be weighing down her stomach. There was silence as Albus struggled to remember his next line.

"Darling," he said, and the words felt alien on his lips as he stared up at Poppy and tried to visualize the face of the Transfiguration professor who had once been his star student. "I fear that I have loved you in the most despicable way—in silence and in secret. I have been too afraid of ruining our friendship to declare my affections, but recently I haven't been able to bear not telling you how I really feel."

Poppy, who had always dreamed of being a muggle actress in her childhood, tried to play her part most convincingly to help Albus with his sincerity. She held a hand over her mouth and made a pretense of blinking back tears; Minerva was doing the same in earnest as she hid in the shadow on the other side of the doorway.

Albus and Poppy?

All this time?

How _could_ they?

"I realize that not all of our colleagues will understand," Dumbledore continued at an encouraging nod from Poppy, "but I love you. I always have, ever since I first saw you. All those years ago I was afraid that my attentions would have been improper—but now, with our close friendship, I honestly believe that _we could make it._ You are…" He paused, running through the list of adjectives Poppy had suggested.

"You are my sunshine," he decided, thinking of Minerva's slow smile, "and I can only dare to hope that you return my affections. Darling, will you marry me?"

Minerva couldn't stop it, and at this point she didn't really care; a low, ragged sob tore from her throat as she turned on her heel and half-ran, half-stumbled to her rooms.

Albus and Poppy both saw the characteristic black of Minerva's robes whip around the corner; the observation left them slack-jawed in the middle of the office, Albus still balancing on one knee. He got to his feet, wincing and rubbing his eyes wearily as the portraits sent up a hailstorm of chatter and speculation. "I didn't see her standing there!" cried Dilys, flapping her hands in agitation. "Does anyone know how much she heard?" Phineas and Everard were arguing with several of the headmasters hanging on the opposite wall; Phineas was abusing Everard's idea too loudly for Dumbledore to even begin to pick up his shattered train of thought. Poppy was lost for words.

Dumbledore finally managed to come to a conclusion in the midst of the confusion. Setting his jaw, the headmaster swept out of the room without a word. He left absolute silence in his wake.

- - -

Minerva thought about leaving Hogwarts—she fantasized packing her bags in a minute, marching to the gates, and disappearating faster than one could say _wingardium leviosa_ to lighten her heart.

_Wretched and foolish_, Minerva thought savagely as she paced her room. She was a fool to have entertained romantic thoughts about Albus Dumbledore. A china vase on her nightstand shattered with the force of her emotion; Minerva didn't bother to repair it.

No, she reminded herself, and used the steel façade she'd been cultivating all these years to calm down. Her chest heaved with the effort. No drastic measures would do. It wasn't exactly like she'd ever approached Albus with her feelings—he had no way of knowing how she felt.

_He wouldn't have you anyway_, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind, and Minerva wished she could strangle it even as she admitted that it was probably correct. She stepped in front of her mirror. There—was this the plain old professor the greatest wizard of the age was supposed to love? _My hair_, she thought despairingly. _My figure; my style—they're all wrong_. Where had the beauty of her youth gone? She turned away abruptly, unable to bear it anymore.

She wondered if she'd be invited to the wedding.

With a small sob Minerva let herself collapse; she folded onto her bed and curled up. _Five minutes_, she thought, _I can allow myself five minutes for this._

Ten minutes later she was still on the bed, coiled in on herself. _Maybe it'll take a lifetime,_ Minerva thought. _Maybe I'll never get over it._ Until this point she hadn't appreciated just how much she'd loved—yes, and even that was too tame a word—and just how much she'd needed Albus Dumbledore.

The man running rampant through Minerva's thoughts was sitting quietly outside her room. He heard something break, a quiet moan; he resisted his every impulse telling him quite urgently to _get in there, Albus, it's your fault_! And so, drawing on one hundred and fifty years of experience that told him next-to-nothing about love, the greatest wizard of the age sat on the hardwood floor outside of his deputy headmistress's rooms and folded his hands together, waiting.

He didn't know what else to do.

_(I know the plot is a little cliche, but don't we all love some good MMAD fun? Please let me know how I'm doing here...& thank you for all of your lovely feedback for the first chapter! The final part should be up in a few days.)_


	3. The Pledge

Disclaimer: If only...

Minerva's breakdown lasted quite longer than she'd planned; quietly the tears stalled, at least for the time being. She felt wrung-out, exhausted. Routine might help, she thought as she dragged herself up and fixed her hair in its usual bun—but how would she ever face Albus or Poppy again?

Her hands hovered over her scalp, frozen with the last bobby-pin in hand_. I think it's time for a change_, she told herself, and waved her wand.

The pins holding her hair came out, and a raven river streaked with gray tumbled down her back. _It makes me feel young again_, Minerva marveled. She hadn't worn her hair down since she'd become a committed bachelorette at the age of fifty. Quickly she waved her wand again, adding style here and texture there—it hardly helped to fill the gaping hole in her heart, but keeping busy kept her mind away from the scene she had witnessed almost seven hours ago.

Albus' confession was the last thing in the world she wanted to think about.

With a sigh, Minerva studied her reflection in the mirror. There were heavy bags under her reddened eyes; her form was slumped and tired. _Who was I kidding?_ she thought, winding her hair back up again and scrubbing her face as if she could rub away the etched sadness there. She would go on as always—and although Minerva didn't make self-pity a habit, she couldn't help but feel shamed for the person staring back out at her from the other side of the mirror.

Judging from the expression in her deep black eyes, she was obviously a very hopeless woman.

- - -

Albus, during his long hours of penance outside of his deputy headmistresses's room, had come up with several solutions to his problem—but none of them seemed quite good enough, considering the situation. If he sent her a letter promising to explain everything in a meeting, Minerva would assume that she knew it all anyway. He could magic flowers to her room with an apology note attached; he could send her chocolates every day and begin to woo her from a distance. Dumbledore thought that he'd even defeat another Grindlewald if it would make Minerva happy again.

But here he was, confronting the bare bones of the matter: Minerva had mistaken his affections, and it was going to take a lot more than fancy illusions to make her see the truth. And so Albus, for once, was not a mighty wizard; he was a regular man dealing with the most human of emotions, and he was determined to meet them in the most human way possible.

Sometimes even magic didn't hold all of the answers.

- - -

Minerva paused with her hand on the doorknob, resisting the urge to turn into her animagus form. Being a cat was almost as good as being drunk; her human emotions were dulled, and there was such pleasure in worrying about such simple things as chasing rats.

No, Minerva reminded herself. She was a Gryffindor; she was up to anything, even meeting Albus—which she did as soon as she left her room and immediately saw him half-slumped against the wall.

"Headmaster!" she said, in spite of herself. How long had he been waiting there? Dumbledore got to his feet, wincing at the tingle from limbs long-unused. "Hello, Minerva," he said quite calmly, although his stomach felt peculiar. "Can we talk?"

Minerva wondered whether she should admit to hearing his proposal, which was obviously rather personal; Dumbledore smiled and took her hand, leading her back into her bedchambers and conjuring a large sofa with a flick of his wrist.

"I see you have had a rather rough day," he commented, looking about at the shards of china still littering the floor and the mussed bedcovers. "I think I must claim full responsibility for your unhappiness; rest assured, dear…unhappy is the _last _thing I'd ever want you to be."

Minerva glanced at him suspiciously. This tone was eerily similar to the one he'd used on Poppy earlier that morning; surely he didn't mean to pledge for her happiness, only to destroy it by taking away her one chance at being so delighted? For the first time Minerva began to wish she'd never even met Albus Dumbledore; it was a sobering thought, and she immediately banished it as the headmaster began to speak again.

"Poppy and I are both aware that you overheard our conversation," he said, "but you of all people, Minerva, should know that things aren't always what they appear." He gave a small sigh, looking unusually unsettled. If she hadn't known better, Minerva would have said that he appeared positively sick.

"I was practicing for a later encounter with _you_, Minerva. Everything I said was meant for _you_; every bit of it was true. I've been meaning to tell you for quite some time that you are everything I've ever loved, all in one person; and I know that I'm a barmy old codger of a wizard, but I can't help my emotions. _I love you_, Minerva—and maybe it's wrong, but this is the most right that I've felt in years."

Comprehension came slowly to the woman sitting opposite Dumbledore; Minerva felt her heartbeat pick up, her breathing suddenly heavy. She glanced up again to meet the headmaster's eyes and found she couldn't look away from the love she found there. From the beginning of his speech Minerva had been sure that it was all a cruel joke; yet, her inner voice told her, Dumbledore wasn't one for cruel tricks. The conviction in his eyes sloughed away all of her doubts, and Minerva was left feeling curiously light, a little concerned that the edges of the world were blurred.

"I love you, Albus," she said, voice so husky and broken that she had to repeat the words to remind herself that they were true in the real world as well as in her dreams. It was all so _unreal_—but Minerva had never been more satisfied with her illusions than at this moment. She looked up to see Albus staring at her with a strange expression in his eyes; he moved as though they were both in quicksand, slowly and deliberately. Albus reached across the space that separated them; he stroked a thumb across her cheek, wiping away tears that Minerva hadn't even known she'd shed—and then he tilted her jaw up, bringing her lips to his in a kiss.

_Magic has nothing on this,_ Minerva thought giddily, feeling weak-kneed and wrong-footed. The kiss was slow and tender and fed with long years of desperation; Minerva followed him down and wrapped her arms around his neck. When they broke, gasping for air, she allowed herself a small smile of complete and utter happiness before meeting him again with her lips and her heart.

"I don't know if I should kill Everard or thank him," Albus managed a few minutes later, when their heart rates had returned to normal and their clothes were rearranged. Minerva sat with her head resting on his shoulder, hair spilling down her back. Their fingers were intertwined. There was a deep calm in the room, slow and steady as breathing; Minerva gave Albus a catlike smile, at peace with just about everything.

"You could always just hook him up with Poppy, dear. You two could work on the proposal."

Their laughter was quickly muffled as the pair found better, lovelier things to do with their mouths.

_- - -_

_(Thank you to everyone who has been reading this the whole way! I know it's only three chapters, but it _has_ been staggered...please let me know your final reactions, impressions, etc--so I know what to work on for the next time!  
Always write on,  
temerity)_


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